


A Red Day

by Narya_Flame



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Post-Battle, Rohan, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: A scouting party returns to Aldburg, wounded and bearing unsettling news.
Relationships: Éothain (Rider of Rohan) & Éomer Éadig
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	A Red Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/gifts).



The men returned in the thin grey light before dawn. Éomer had not slept – not because he was anxious, or afraid, but because the autumn night felt almost watchful in its stillness, as though waiting for a storm to break.

When the cry went up from the gatehouse, he knew. There was something in the timbre of the guard's voice, a note that echoed darkly through the waking streets. He did not need to see the empty horses, or the bloodstained gear, or the haunted eyes of those who returned, and nor was there time to wonder. He ordered the wounded to the healing hall, called on bystanders to take horses to the stables, and scanned each man in turn. Hengist...Haddan...the limp form with the shock of orange hair could only be Raedwald, though Béma only knew what had happened to his face...

Éothain's dapple grey mare was riderless.

_No – it cannot be, I will not believe it –_

“Take care, now, lad.” The voice to his right – Aldhelm, the old master of the armoury – was gruff but not unkind. “That bolt's in deep.”

“I'm well enough; see to the others...”

Éomer turned, and cold relief washed through him as his friend was helped down from another's horse. A black metal quarrel protruded from his right shoulder. Éomer's heart gave a sickening bound at the sight. “Éothain.”

His friend lifted his head, pain and grief in his storm-grey eyes – and something else, something that Éomer recognised from long years of service as shame. Éothain let go of the man supporting him and sank to one knee. “Lord, forgive me.”

Around them, those less seriously wounded were being helped into houses. Youngsters still in training came to take weapons and helmets and gear; the anxious murmuring began as townsfolk searched for loved ones and asked over and over what had happened. More than one voice was weeping.

“Peace, friend.” Éomer gave Éothain his hand. “Come; enough of your pride. We must get you to the surgeon.”

Gently he drew Éothain to his feet, but the younger man's eyes rolled upwards and closed, and his legs gave way beneath him. Éomer caught him and eased him back to the ground, while Aldhelm cursed and called for a stretcher.

“Stubborn fool,” Éomer murmured, stroking tangles of golden hair from Éothain's face. “What in the name of Eorl happened out there?”

*

“It was not his fault.”

In the infirmary all was efficient bustle. Those most badly wounded lay in the wooden beds that lined the walls; the rest lay on pallets, or even on cloaks on the floor.

_We will need more room in here – or another building to house the injured and ailing – before the winter is done._

Some of the men were sleeping now, mercifully. Others lay talking softly to family or friends, while the healers stepped around them, carrying jars of ointment or bundles of lint.

“By the numbers, we should have prevailed,” Hengist went on. “Otherwise Éothain would never have given the order.”

“I do not doubt it.” Éothain had the high temper of so many young soldiers, but he bore a fierce love for those he served with. He would not needlessly put them in danger. Éomer would not have trusted him with command otherwise.

“They fought like _men._ And they were as tall as our men – and taller, some of them. This was no rabble of wandering Orcs.”

“No, indeed.” Éomer had heard the rumours – great hulking creatures that looked and sounded like Orcs, but who moved by day and held together with the discipline of a company of the Eorlingas. Until today he had dismissed them as tavern tales. He would not do so again. “What else?”

“They used short, broad swords, plain but well forged. Some of them carried great bows of yew. Their leader used _that._ ” He nodded at the cruel crossbow, resting against the infirmary wall. “And on their shields...” Hengist paused, and lowered his voice still further. “On their shields was the emblem of the White Hand.”

Something settled inside Éomer, like pieces of a child's wooden puzzle locking together. Suspicions half-formed...things glimpsed and heard but not wholly understood...

The screen around Éothain's bed was moved back; the surgeon, Beran, emerged, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Say nothing of this to anyone. Not yet,” Éomer told Hengist.

“No, lord.”

Éomer nodded, and turned to the surgeon. “Well?”

“He will live.”

“Will he recover?”

Beran hesitated. “He will regain his health, I have no doubt of that – and quickly. He is young and strong. I cannot yet say whether his arm will be the same again.”

Hengist gasped sharply. Éomer pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does he know?”

“I have said nothing to him, lord. He is sleeping now.”

“Very well.” Éomer thought for a moment. “Let me sit with him a while. When he wakes, I will tell him.”

“Is that...” Beran gave a delicate cough. “Do you believe that wise, lord?”

“He is certain to ask, and I will not have him lied to. I would rather he heard it from me.”

*

Éothain slept until sundown, dosed heavily with wort and willow-bark. Éomer stayed with him for most of the day, though now and again he left his friend's bedside to speak with the other men, and with their families. He did not yet seek out those mourning the fallen. That, he thought heavily, would keep until the morrow.

When Éothain stirred, the light was deepening into rusted gold, and a hush had fallen over the town. Birdsong drifted out of the downs. No laughter came from the taverns; no children played in the streets.

“Éomer...”

Despite the surgeon's assurances that Éothain would live, Éomer felt a great weight leave him as his friend's eyes blinked open. “Keep still.” He laid a gentle hand on Éothain's left shoulder. “The bolt is out, and the wound is sewn closed. Do not jostle it, or old Beran will have my head.”

Éothain laughed softly and leaned back against his pillows. “I doubt that.” His brow creased. “Raedwald?”

“He will survive.” Éomer did not add that the boy would be disfigured for life. He laid the back of his hand against Éothain's forehead, checking once more for fever – though the healers had done so many times already, and thought him in no danger. “Hengist told me how you fought for them all. More than one man owes you their life.”

“I should not have given the order.”

“You could not have known what they were.” He stroked back the golden hair. “You are not to blame, my friend.”

Éothain closed his eyes. For a moment Éomer wondered if he had slipped back into sleep – and then his friend spoke again.

“How long must I wait before I can train?”

Éomer paused. He had known the question would come, of course, and he knew what Éothain was truly asking. _When can I fight again? When can I seek my revenge?_

One grey eye opened, sharp in spite of the herbs and the long, healing sleep. “Tell me.”

“Beran is not certain that your shoulder will fully heal. He believes the movement may be affected, and that wielding a spear could prove difficult.”

Éothain breathed slowly outwards. He lifted his left hand as though to touch the wound, and then thought better of it and let his arm fall back to his side. “I knew, I think.” His lips curved without humour. “I saw his face before they removed the bolt.” Another breath, this one ragged. He turned his face away.

“Éothain – friend – listen to me now.” Delicate words did not come easily to Éomer; at need he could be cautious and courteous in speech, but the spinning of pretty tales he left to the bards. He could not have soothed his friend with honeyed lies, even if he wanted to. “I do not know whether Beran is right or wrong. I do know that war is coming, and that I need you by my side. If you cannot fight with me then so be it; a man may serve in many ways besides in battle. But if you are able – if your wounds heal – then you will ride with my household, the second in command of my _éored_.” He rose, and gently kissed his Éothain's brow. “That honour you have earned in full measure.”

The younger man's breath caught. “Surely another – one of the older captains –”

“I can think of no better choice.” Usually he would have given his friend a playful push; under the circumstances, he brushed his fingers across Éothain's cheek. “And so you must rest, and get well.”

Slowly, Éothain smiled. “As you command, lord.”

Éomer waited until his friend's breathing settled, meaning to return to his quarters when Éothain was once more asleep. But as the darkness deepened, he found his own eyelids growing heavy – and surely one of his household could oversee the despatches to Edoras? Besides, the surgeon was occupied with other patients. He did not want Éothain to be left alone. There could be no harm in staying a while longer...

*

When Beran returned to check on his patient, Éothain was sleeping soundly – as was the Third Marshal of the Riddermark, curled beside him on the bed like a child.


End file.
